#quentin.

“hey, man,” voice is low, unassuming, almost slurred. he looks tired, like he hasn’t slept in days, bags under his eyes are bruises on a face already marred by a broken nose, ( he’s an abstract art piece in the flesh ), disorienting to look at. “i’m not tryin’ to bother you.” he lightens his tone, trying to market himself to the young woman before him. “i was just wonderin’ if you had like, a cigarette or somethin’ i could bum off ya?” he wipes at his nose, sniffles, shrugs. “i know i look like shit, and i usually have money, but today’s just...” he spits away from her and shakes his head. “fuck, man.” he laughs, a little nervously, sounding more than a little unhinged.

he followed him here. ( duh. )  it’s a shitty bar in quentin’s least favorite part of the city, but eh. this guy’s worth the trouble. ( he’s seen what he can do -- he’s seen the sort of monster that lives behind those dead eyes. ) he’s watched him ( stalk, drug, assault, kill women ), he’s seen how he does it. he’s here tonight to punish him for it. he smiles as the other steps up to the bar, gently places a hand on the other’s arm. “hey, man. you’re jaxon love, right? i’ll get your drink, man -- i like your music.” he turns to the bartender. “it’s on me.” he tells them, smiles, pulls his wallet from his pocket. as the drink slides across the bar, quentin intercedes, grabbing it before it slips off the edge, a brief whoa!, a startled laugh, ( he spikes the other man’s drink ). he takes the glass and hands it to the other. “good catch, huh?” he says, laughing and taking a sip of his own beer, putting down some cash.  “can’t imagine a guy like you came out to a bar all by himself -- where’s your entourage, man?”